


Pretend We're Married

by icedteainthebag



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-12
Updated: 2009-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:10:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icedteainthebag/pseuds/icedteainthebag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That jackoff on the downstairs couch has a lot of nerve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretend We're Married

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my wonderful friend [](http://memories-child.livejournal.com/profile)[**memories_child**](http://memories-child.livejournal.com/). I'm so happy I got to be your Santa! Merry Christmas, baby!! And thanks to [](http://colebaltblue.livejournal.com/profile)[**colebaltblue**](http://colebaltblue.livejournal.com/) for watching Arcadia with me a few nights ago and inspiring this fic. Ah, my muse is such a horny bitch.

9:39 p.m.: That jackoff on the downstairs couch has a lot of nerve.

She's frustrated. Actually, frustrated doesn't even begin to describe what she is, she fumes as she stands over the sink, washing off the bright green oxygenating masque with rough swipes of her hands. The water splashes everywhere, all over the gorgeous, immaculate polished marble of the counter. She couldn't care less.

9:40: He has no fucking idea what it takes to be this gorgeous, she thinks, grabbing a soft hand towel and pressing it against her face. This crap she puts on twice per week that causes such a repulsive, knee-jerk reaction in his sorry ass is $10 an ounce at Sephora and it keeps her complexion clear from breakouts that she is three hundred percent sure would otherwise be caused by his incessant bullshit and hemming and hawing, if not for said $10 an ounce masque.

And what does he do? He throws his sweatshirt in the corner and leaves his shoes on and hops on the bed and looks pretty. He doesn't even have to try to look pretty. And that pissed her off even more. And she came out wearing her masque and her comfortable flannel pajamas, as school marmish as possible--what was he expecting, Victoria's Secret?--and his audible recoil pissed her off even more.

And then he waggled his eyebrows at her anyway and rubbed the comforter and tossed out some excuse about being married now, like being single ever stopped him from fucking a woman before, but oh, it's different when it's Scully, my good ol' partner Scully, dependable, intellectual, latex-glove-snapping Scully--with Scully, we have to wait until we can pretend we're married to finally get something going.

That pissed her off even more. So she kicked his ass to the couch. Part of her regretted it instantly, that part of her that was increasingly more impatient as she stood in the bathroom now, telltale heat centered in her abdomen and a tingling feeling up her spine as she asked herself _What if?_ What if she'd jumped right onto that bed with him, flannel pajamas, Sephora masque and all?

9:45: It would have been awfully messy, she concedes, flicking off the bathroom light.

9:46: She sighs and plops down on the bed. She can hear the television downstairs. She's trying to ignore the irritating voice in her head telling her she's pretty thirsty and could use a glass of water from the fridge.

9:47: She sits cross-legged on the bed and traces the stitching on the comforter. She listens to the television. She thinks about Big Mike. She's stretching for avoidance.

9:50: She looks up at the ceiling and silently curses God for her lack of wantonness. Whatever happened to med school Dana, anyway? Was it really that long ago? Jesus, it was, she thinks, putting her face in her hands.

9:53: She plops back on the pillows, a real, whole-body plop, and tries to hear what he's watching. It better not be porn, she thinks. I will seriously kick his ass.

9:55: The noise from the television ceases and the house falls eerily quiet. She's never been a fan of houses like this. It reminds her of Bill and Tara's place in San Diego, artificial and oversized, marble and earth tones and open space. She wonders what he's doing now, if the couch is comfortable, if it's long enough for him or if his feet are dangling over the arm. She hopes they are.

9:57: She's really thirsty and there's no water glass in the bathroom.

10:00: She groans and slides off the bed. Her thirst is overpowering her now and she convinces herself that it's her need for hydration that is getting the best of her. She cautiously pads down the carpeted stairs in her white slipper socks with the traction on the bottom just in case she encounters a slippery surface. She listens and hears nothing, slowly approaching. He's got a lamp on that filters soft, yellowed light through the doorway. Her throat is parched. She needs that drink. Now.

10:01: She takes a deep breath and heads around the corner into the living room in a beeline to the kitchen for a desperately needed glass of icy cold water.

She glances at the couch and stops on a penny when she sees him. It doesn't take a Quantico-trained forensics pathologist to realize what he's doing. Yes, he's under a blanket, but some things you just can't hide.

"Oh, Jesus, Mulder," she says, probably too loudly, putting her hand over her eyes and turning away.

His eyes snap open. "Scully!"

10:02: And she stands there and he lies there. Finally she turns to face him again. She's relieved, mostly, to find that all movement south of his chest has come to a complete standstill.

This whole goddamned thing pisses her off even more.

10:03: "Jesus, Mulder! What do you think you're doing?" She puts her hand on her hip, feeling some sort of deep personal responsibility to make him accountable for his actions. And she doesn't want to move from her stance in front of him, not just yet. She tries to ignore the physical reaction her body had to seeing him doing that, to the thought of him being partially, if not completely, naked under the blanket and...touching himself.

10:04: "Um," is his response. He stares at her like he's in trouble, all puppy dog eyes and chewing his cheek.

"I mean…I mean, Mulder, this isn't even your house!"

"I was pretending it was," he says.

She snorts. "Yeah. Just like you want to pretend we're married."

"Well, in a way, Scully, that's what I'm doing right now. Pretending we're married."

She huffs and rolls her eyes. "I just came down here for a drink of water."

"There's a sink upstairs."

She tilts her head to the side, trying to maintain her frustrated composure. Damn him. Damn him. He shifts his body on the couch but he's starting to smile at the meltdown of her icy _persona du nuit_. She struggles. "There's no glass upstairs, Mulder. And the water down here is filtered. And colder."

"Whatever you say." He puts his hands behind his head. The word is smug. She wants to kick in his shins. Instead, she stares at him and then wordlessly walks into the kitchen.

10:06: She's leaning against the kitchen counter and drinking a tall, cold glass of water, comforting herself in the fact that she actually was thirsty and that her thirst is now being quenched. In a way.

She hears him coming toward the kitchen and she watches him out of the corner of her eye as he gets himself a glass. She refuses to look down at his hips. She will not do it, no matter how strong the yearning is to glance down and see if his condition has resolved itself.

He retrieves his water from the fridge. "That bed's pretty comfortable, huh?"

She looks over at him as he joins her in leaning against the counter. "How's the couch?"

"It's a couch." He takes a long drink and wipes the edge of his mouth with his hand. She feels a twinge of something somewhere unmentionable. "I'm used to couches."

She takes a deep breath. He should know what's coming. His eyebrows go up in preparation. "You know, not all married people are like that. My parents slept in the same bed for thirty years, every night my dad wasn't away."

He gives her a half-smile. "Mine didn't." He raises his glass. "To the inexplicable variations of the interpretation of matrimony."

She gives in, raises her glass and clinks his noisily. They drink. She keeps drinking. It sure feels good going down.

10:08: He's watching her and it should make her uncomfortable. It does, but not in a bad way. In a rather complex, sensual way. She shifts on her feet and knows she's losing ground to the pulling feeling in her abdomen.

"Well, I think I'll head up to bed," she says, nearly wincing at how unsure she sounds.

He's already set his glass down and is doing some sort of bounce against the kitchen counter, propelling himself off of it with his hands, landing back on it and repeating this action over and over. He's staring at the ceiling.

10:10: How did he end up standing in front of her? "You don't have to go just yet," he says with that deeply interested, I'm-reading-your-mind look he uses on her sometimes. She melts inside, again, and hopes it isn't blatantly obvious. His fingers tuck her hair behind her ear and she grips the counter behind her tightly.

10:11: His lips feel soft on hers and the mere touch of them makes her dizzy. His effect on her doesn't piss her off. It should, her last coherent thought concedes, but it doesn't.

10:12: His tongue, also soft, cool from his water, gently slips past her lips and she slides her hands up his muscular shoulders to the back of his neck. She can only feel this moment suspended--feel him leaning into her, feel his mouth and his tongue and his breath on her cheek. Feel the hard counter pushing into her back, feel her body demanding more from him, feel her body begging her to let go.

10:16: She's sitting on the counter with her thighs pressed into his sides, her feet pressed into the cabinets below them, and he's kissing her harder now. He moans into her mouth and she moans back instinctively. She's leaning back on her hands, holding herself up with whatever strength she has left.

She no longer cares that this isn't their house.

10:22: Their slow kissing takes a 90-degree turn when he slides her pajama pants down her legs. She has her first thought in eleven minutes. _Oh my God._

10:23: Her panties are gone. His fingers trail up her legs. Second thought. _Oh my God._

10:24: He's on his knees in front of her and her third thought is incoherent as he kisses the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. She leans heavily on her hands, tilts her head back and feels the sweet sweep of his tongue over her skin. She moans and grabs his hair when his mouth covers her. She feels wanton Dana returning. Finally.

10:28: Minutes feel like hours as his tongue traces intricate lines, slides here, flicks there, tucks itself in, pushes into her. He repeats the same pattern slowly. She pries her eyes open to look down and he's watching her and it nearly makes her come.

10:30: She wants to hold off but she can't, her mind is telling her to wait but her body isn't listening. Her common sense is on strike. She rocks her hips to his mouth, slowly, and he takes the cue to lap her harder, faster, finally finding one sweet spot and sticking with it.

10:31: She comes, hard, a dizzying head rush that tingles like rainfall down her body. She pushes his face against her and whimpers.

She's lost track of time.

He doesn't leave her right away and she's shuddering, feeling aftershocks with every stroke of his tongue.

But when he rises and kisses her, she kisses him back hard, forgetting everything outside of the kitchen in this perfect tract house, the house that isn't even theirs but they just christened it as theirs, and she thinks--she knows, as he presses his hardness between her thighs--that they are going to christen it in an even more satisfying way.

He pushes his track pants down his thighs and she runs her hand up the front of his jockeys. He gasps and she smiles, at how he sounds, at how he feels under her palm.

"Hi," she breathes, their lips inches apart. Their noses brush.

"Hi," he says, his voice gentle as they study each other. "Scully, I want you to be okay with this. I can hardly think straight right now. Think straight for me. Please."

She kisses him, the short hair on the back of his head tickling her fingers, and it becomes frantic kissing, his kisses and her kisses, some of them off center, missing their mouths, meeting the warm skin of their chins and cheeks, wandering to ears, trailing down necks.

"We're married now," she murmurs against his lips once she finds them again. She feels him slide his hand between them and he runs his fingers between her legs once more. She loses her breath. And then she feels his cock brushing against her, into her, one warm hand sliding up her thigh.

"Yeah," he whispers, pushing into her with a low breath out, filling her up entirely. She's hovering, quivering in a state of aroused disbelief. She can't breathe. She tries to tell herself to breathe and she can't, not for ten, fifteen seconds. Her lungs ache until she lets the breath out with a moan, loud enough that she surprises herself.

He smiles and slides out and back in, achingly slow, and then there's his groan, a kind of growl deep in his throat, and she feels herself tightening around his cock with a shiver. She holds onto the back of his neck and her feet leave the cabinet and lock around his waist.

"You ready?" he says, pressing his hands against her ass, kneading her, pulling her closer.

She knows exactly what to say. "Let's get it on, honey."

He laughs, a kind of sexy laugh she hasn't ever heard that makes her sizzle. He thrusts into her once, short and quick, and she whimpers softly, she can't help it. And he seems to like that, a hint of mischief in his eyes as he does it again.

She pulls him tighter with her legs and he slides into her, over and over, nearly pulling out and then pushing back in. She's on fire, every inch of her body, and she grits her teeth and works her hips against him, wanting to go a little crazy, to show him what six years of pent-up sexual energy can do to a woman. Her fingernails press into the skin at the nape of his neck, hard, harder, and he groans and thrusts hard, harder. She thrusts back, hard, harder.

Soon he is going full speed, fucking her, her ass sliding on the counter but his hands pull her back to him.

"Fuck," he growls with every movement inside of her. The words from his mouth are almost as sinful as what he's doing to her. "Fuck, Scully."

She tilts her hips and feels him grinding against her, and she's impatient and can't take it any more and slides her hand between them, rubbing her clit hard, desperate to come around him. She tries to keep her eyes open, tries to maintain eye contact, but he's fucking her so hard and she's coming again, around him, and she feels a warm flush over her entire body.

"Come on," she whispers. He groans and fucks her harder, and she watches as he squints his eyes and his mouth falls open, and this is Mulder's hold-on-I'm-coming face, and damn is it beautiful. He comes nearly right after she does, his fingers digging into her hips, probably bruising them--it hurts, but the best kind of hurt, a kind of hurt she wants to feel over and over again.

He pulls her tightly to him and she's wrapped around him, and he's inside of her, and it feels amazing, more amazing than she'd ever imagined. And she'd done a lot of imagining, especially as of late.

"Scully," he breathes. She presses her cheek against his chest.

"Hmmm?" She's aching around him still.

"I was thinking."

She smiles. She can only imagine. "And?"

"Why don't we christen every room of our new house?"

This makes her happy. Very, very happy.

THE END. OF THE KITCHEN ANYWAY.  



End file.
